


Waiting

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 02:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: It’s been six years since that summer, four of those spent in silence. Elio never let go, he was always there, waiting. When he stumbles upon Oliver by happenstance one day, he finally tells him.





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Okay kiddos, I got an anon ask on tumblr about the song Surrender by Natalie Taylor and when I listened to it, I spiraled. I highly highly highly recommend listening to it as well as Barber’s piece (actually no, these are required listening lol they are the soul of this fic)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izQsgE0L450  
> https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/natalietaylor/surrender.html

There was a particular chill in the northern town, a sense of cold permeating through layers and falling with every individual snowflake, begging to be acknowledged, to be felt. His footsteps are steady, grounding. Elio pulls his coat closer around him as he walks, his shaky breath echoing in puffs of air around him. The new Walkman in his pocket skips a beat and he adjusts the headphones, Barber's Adagio for Strings coming to life once again, a new favorite, one he couldn't shake and perhaps was afraid to consider why the almost anxious and entirely heart wrenching melody struck him so on brisk mornings when he was alone. The light was reflecting off the powdery snow on his path and he had to squint, suddenly wishing he had brought sunglasses despite the frigid temperature. It was always odd, to him—how bright the world could be yet so dull in his mind. He enters his preferred café and smiles at the quiet hum of the ovens, the whirl of the espresso machine, the chatter of students and locals alike. There is beauty in the community, he believes, as he orders a cappuccino and steps aside to wait for it. With his headphones on, everything is muted under the weight of the building strings, like whispers between sheets. There is a couple in the back, lovers perhaps, grasping hands tightly, secrets passing in every sated breath they appear to take in time with the others' heart. There was the scrappy young student in the center booth, his textbooks scattered like rocks on a shoreline, notecards like driftwood.

He sits at the counter by the window, watching the world pass by as his sips his too-hot coffee. A man in a black trench crosses the street, ease in his stride, an effervescent quality about him. There was romance in this town, simply in the way people existed. They lived and breathed the cold air and allowed it to fuel them, not suffocate them, not remind them of warm beds and space heaters. He'd never had cold like this, cold where it filled your soul. He watches two people laugh at something across the street, the sound floating through time and space to reach him, even if just in his mind. He hears quiet laughter, the joyous kind that can't be predicted nor contained, the kind that creeps up and says  _I am here, listen to me and love me for who I am before I disappear._  He thinks of blue skies as he stares at gray, the brightest blue he'd ever seen, how it transferred from heavens to simply  _heaven_  in his eyes, how it saw and understood things unsaid and unknown. He thinks of warm fingers and soft smiles, of sheets lost to time and scent dissolved in memory.

He sees him everywhere.

It was hardest on days like today, days when he knew that Oliver was meant to be near. He kept tabs on his employment history, he knew the exact distance between their two campuses, knew every department's visiting lecturer schedule, watched for readings at local libraries and bookstores. It was always winter when he visited, never summer. There would be an event or function, perhaps a talk or dinner, and Elio would watch people file into the building, wondering if he focused hard enough would he be able to smell him again, hear his voice once more without having to cross the threshold which would undoubtedly bring more pain into his life, could he hear just enough to make it worth the risk of pain?

It was the same every time—he'd wait, watch the others enter first, wonder if Oliver was already inside (he was), drift away in thoughts of that summer, grow anxious in memory until the pain festered, unable to be ignored, present and real and forcing his feet home. It didn't matter how many times their lives almost intertwined, the story was the same each time. They lived too close to not have near encounters, yet existed so far apart that the collision of their souls would cause hurricanes in their wake. He thought this every time, of the pain it would cause if he reached out and took the steps necessary to see him one more time. He had a lover tell him as much once, the sting of knowing another could see the torture under the surface cementing itself in his memory. He'd called his father that night, after being told by the lover that he was destructive and it wasn't worth it to be together anymore.  _Oh, Elio,_  he had said.  _Consider what you are causing yourself by feeding the pain that does not need to exist. It's been years, my son. Let go, Elio, and heal. He would want you to heal._

He never did, though. Not really.

A tall figure steps out of the local bookstore, coat turned up, scarf tied tightly like Elio's heart in his chest, the pages of notation he'd pulled from a bag falling forgotten at the counter, draping delicately over the half empty mug. A cigarette hangs between his lips, a lighter lifting to ignite the flame extinguished by years, the sparks flickering even at this distance, even from where Elio sat in disbelief. The first exhale from the man's lips goes straight to Elio's lungs, the smoky puffs disseminating in the cold winter air drifting towards him like a prayer, like an offering made in solitude. Elio's throat tightens, heat rising from the base of his neck and up over his ears, his fingers going numb. He thinks of the pain, of the nights spend waiting, wishing, of lovers who had come and gone but never spoke quite the same, never left him feeling complete. He thinks of children and rings which mean more than he's ever known, thinks of the life he is not a part of, thinks of him not recognizing him, of the blind eye, of the goodbye that will follow any inevitable hello. He considers the hollow of the embrace, of the distance in voice, of the memories shattered in reality. He weighs each option, wonders if the pain of looking down in this moment could possibly surpass the pain of speaking his name and not hearing his own returned, or worse, hearing it returned but with the type of cold indifference that happens only after years and experience have left their mark on old friends. Would it be worth it, to surrender in this moment, to allow himself to find out if the scenarios which haunted his dreams resembled the reality he might have? Would he ever have another chance?

Oliver sags against a brick wall after jogging to Elio's side of the street, his body masked from view, though he is close enough now that Elio thinks he almost hear his laughter stitching itself into the corners of his heart long neglected. He touches the papers in front of him, finding it difficult to breathe, to swallow, to move other than to pack up and walk out the door. The outside air hits him like a wall, headphones hung around his neck, hands stuffed deep in pockets as his backpack weighs his shoulder down like the weight of a thousand moments he can never take back.

He fills himself to the brim with necessary oxygen, fearing he may not have the ability to breath when he turns. He counts to three in his head, allowing all the anxiety to build for those brief, fleeting moments before letting go and accepting that whatever happens from this moment on would be okay. He turns, sees him leaning against the wall, sees the cigarette fall from his fingers, see him watch it extinguish itself on in the snow. He notes the way his fingers touch his thumbs, how his cheeks turned a shade of pink he'd only seen once when he'd been sunburned on a particularly warm day. Elio liked it, it felt safe, familiar. He hadn't shaved, his hair was shorter, more styled. He watched cars drive by, never moving, still as the universe spun around him, unaware that he held the ground beneath Elio's feet steady.

_ "Oliver, _ " Elio's voice is foreign in his ears, the name he swore not to speak again escaping without permission and before he's ready, before he can prepare his heart for goodbye. Oliver glances in his direction at the name, his brows lifted, his hands going to his coat pockets. Elio ceases his strides towards Oliver, standing a few yards away, both frozen as their eyes lock, the last time they said goodbye haunting the space between them. The last night when nothing happened and everything was buried is suddenly washing over their senses, the desire to right wrongs overwhelming as they were simultaneously forced to acknowledge righting the wrong would be just as wrong, just as painful, just as cruel, just to someone else, not them. " _Elio?"_ Oliver says, his face falling in a state of despair, his hands lifting to sift through his too-short hair. "Elio, my god," he says again, shaking his head. " _Elio_. It's really you."

"Hi," Elio says, though it feels terribly empty considering his mind was running overtime to dissect the sound of his voice, the subtlety of touch that it always seemed to have when he mumbled his name like this, transcending the merely verbal use of a voice. The word, however insufficient, is enough to pull a smile from Oliver, lifting the gray slum which had fallen upon Elio's vision as of late, allowing light to seep through the cracks of his being once more. " _Hi_ ," he repeats, somehow unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare, remember, wonder if he wanted him too, if it was all there on the surface, even now, even years later, for him as well.

"Come here," Oliver says, walking suddenly, his arms closing in until they're all Elio knows, all he will ever remember. The smell of a summer long lost encloses him in safety, his heart racing as his arms wrap around a form that should not feel so familiar after all this time. His fingers cling to material, his body stretching up to press against as much of his lost love as possible. They stand there, snow covering the parts of their clothing not touching, warmth radiating between them, for longer than is acceptable. Neither seems aware, lost in the steady rise and fall of the other's form. When Oliver removes himself from Elio's hold, he leads him into the coffee shop where a cold cappuccino still sits abandoned at the counter. They order fresh coffee and sit at the table in the back, Elio smiling when Oliver suggests it, the memory of the lovers still there.

It's awkward at first, both stumbling over words and hiding shy smiles beneath mugs. They speak of Elio's studies and his job composing music, of Oliver fearing his job was on the line with some absurd budget cut he didn't understand. They speak of family, of the weather, anything but what they've both been haunted by for years. It's Elio who asks about the name of  _oh who was it, that writer you liked, do you remember? In Bergamo?_ He was desperate to make him remember, remember  _anything_  about their time together, about their last days when they were free and in love and felt invincible despite knowing they were anything but. Oliver takes the bait knowingly and feeds his need to reminisce despite it tearing him apart. The saddened smile on Elio's lips when he speaks of their time together is enough to tell him that this wasn't something they could walk away from again, not unscathed, not with any expectation of being okay again. It was too late—Oliver saw the way Elio's eyes lit up when he smiled, how his laughter filled the gaps of life in Oliver's soul, how they were interwoven into one another's lives without ever seeing it for themselves. They'd been so close, all these years. So close, and yet nowhere near where they wanted to be.

He wanted to tell Elio that seeing him again was like resurfacing after years of deep diving, oxygen tanks long lost. He wanted to tell him that he'd built a life he was proud of, but it felt empty in dreams when the darkness couldn't hide the scars leaving Italy that summer had created. He wanted to tell him of his wife, of her staying with her sister, of their fight. He wanted to tell him of the student in his class that insisted classical music was the only music worth listening to, and that if the great philosophers were still around they'd agree. He wanted to tell him how his younger son, barely a year old, reminded him so much of Elio with his curly hair and big smile.

What he says instead is, "What are you thinking about?"

Elio smiles in the way he used to, looking down at his hands on the table. He's thinking about the first time they kissed and how differently it would be to kiss him now, knowing the weight of it, knowing it would be more than satisfying a curiosity, an infatuation, a desire. "You," he admits. "Always you."

"Elio," Oliver sighs, looking at the table.

"Do you remember that first night? How you had to take my clothes off because my hands were shaking so hard? You kept asking if I was alright and a part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity of you asking if I wanted to stop." Elio felt the inches between them like lifetimes, their proximity creating a heady desire to cross lines he never thought they'd have a chance to even toe.

"Of course I remember. But it was my hands shaking, not yours- why are you thinking about that?" Oliver eyes him, tries not to remember the nights spent together for fear he'll want to spend another, then another, and another, until every night is just another spent with him.

Elio shrugs and looks down momentarily. "I let you leave, you know. I could have stopped you from marrying her."

"I know." Elio looks up at Oliver's words, shocked he would admit it. He'd made his own comment in jest, a smile painted on his lips however false, falling now as he realized he really  _could_  have stopped him.

"Where have you been?" Elio asks suddenly. "I've been waiting, you know. Waiting outside your lectures, your book signings and readings, I've been waiting  _years_ , I haven't heard from you, you don't send letters anymore and you stopped asking about me in the letters to my father, where have you been that you can sit there and say I could have stopped you, when I've been here, when I've been," Elio swallows, his eyes locked on Oliver's, his words trapped in his throat.

"I was stuck," Oliver says quietly.

"Are you still stuck?" Elio asks, just as softly, terrified of the answer. When Oliver doesn't answer, he nods and says, "I want you."

"Elio, we don't even know—"

"I  _want_  you, and I'll wait. Because I let you go once and I swear to god, Oliver, I can't do that again."

"You don't know what you're asking," Oliver says. "You have no idea what you're asking me to walk away from."

"I'm not asking you to walk away from  _anything_. God, Oliver, I just want you. I  _just, want, you._ "

"I want you, too." A confession, hushed, eyes downcast, but it's enough.

"I'll wait, then. If there is a day when we can be together again, I'll wait for it."

"Okay," Oliver says, though he's not sure he'll ever be ready to tell him the waiting is over. When they leave the coffee shop, though, he realizes with a start that it had always been Elio holding him together, through it all. It had always been a thought in the back of his mind that one day he'd find him and they'd pick up where they left off. He never considered an alternative life where their paths didn't cross once more, where they wouldn't drift back to one another's embrace. As they face off to say goodbye, he looks at Elio and knows that things were falling apart all around him, but the one thing he felt certain of was the man in front of him. " _Oliver,_ " he whispers against Elio's ear when they embrace. He feels the younger man sink against him like he used to and he knows, in that moment, that no matter what happened, he was finally willing to accept the one truth he'd known all along. He would do anything, do  _everything_ , to be with him.

"Elio." He feels him smile against his neck, the warm breath heating his skin. "I love you," he whispers, Oliver's eyes falling shut as he whispers it back, a promise, and understanding that this was more than they had given in their youth, this was permanent and important. This was a life they were choosing, and however long the wait would be, it had an end date and they would be together. As Oliver watches him leave, he wonders what kind of father Elio would be to his children, if they'd adopt more of their own, if his wife would ever speak to him again when she found out. He knew it would be worth it, though, as he watched his life walk down the sidewalk, round the corner, and drift away with the snow. He knew, for the first time in years, that the night would bring dreams of solace instead of what might never be.

Later, when they would lay on their couch and theorize about what it was that finally ended the waiting and started their lives together, he'd smile fondly as Elio would tell him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—

_ We had found the stars, you and I. And this is given once only. _

 

 


End file.
